Occult
by HazeLavender
Summary: Voldemort is rising but that seems to be the least of Hermione's and Snape's concerns. A realistic view of what a relationship between the two would entail, whilst in the midst of a war. [Dark and no clichès]
1. It's Not Possible

Title: Occult  
  
Author: HazeLavender  
  
Rating: Overall: NC-17 (for probable language, violence, and sensuality)  
  
Category: Drama/Angst/Romance  
  
Pairing: Severus Snape/Hermione Granger. And whatever I might feel like throwing in.  
  
Summary: Voldermort is rising but that seems to be the least of Hermione's and Snape's concerns. A realistic view of what a relationship between the two would entail, whilst in the midst of a war.   
  
Archive: No, thank you. It's at my website: http://freewebs.com/midnight_spiral/  
  
Feedback: Is always appreciated. Constructive criticism and flames are both welcomed equally.  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own anything Harry Potter related. It's all Rowling's.  
  
Notes: I've read the fifth book, thus if you haven't, I must warn you that some spoilers (major and minor) will be included as the tale progresses. Also I'd like to say that I'm keeping all the characters very true to themselves, so if you're looking for a lovable Snape (mine is dark) or a witless Hermione (mine is smart), than stop reading ... now. The minor characters of my story will also be realistic so if you're into that (I'm assuming most are), than please continue and enjoy!   
  
Chapter One:  
  
It's Not Possible  
  
Hermione Granger was a huff of angry cumulus as she walked, purposely, through the Great Hall that evening, and sat, with an audible plop, next to Harry and Ron. She was steaming from the inside out and even though she hadn't wanted to, threw a nasty glance, with a creased forehead, over to the Head Table, or more precisely Headmaster Dumbledore.   
  
Ron being interrupted from the task at hand -- enjoying a delectable meal -- frowned slightly at Harry before inquiring , "What's wrong with you, Hermione?" with an apprehensive, dolt look on his features.   
  
Before answering, a few sharp daggers were thrown in Ron's direction, apparently deducing his intellectual capabilities and then, almost miraculously, the look of contempt scurried away from her angular features. "Oh, Ron," she almost sobbed, "I'm not Head Girl."  
  
This awarded her with a sharp gasp from Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and a clanging, silver twinge as Ron's fork hit the table, almost as surprised as Ron's wide eyes.  
  
"But -- but," Ron stammered. And then fell silent because he had lost himself in his thoughts of who could possibly be more qualified than Hogwarts own, personal walking library. After all she had been a prefect. What changed?  
  
Hermione stole a glance at her two best friends and chewed her bottom lip, seemingly contemplating the very same thing. She had gotten Outstanding on all her O.W.L's and was prepared to do the same justice to the upcoming N.E.W.T's and yet now, with her dejected spirit and wounded pride, she felt that would be close to impossible.   
  
The only person at the table with a thoughtful expression was Harry, who while had his own worries, decided he had a duty to ease Hermione's suffering. After all, he always felt compelled to help others. "Don't worry, Hermione. I'm sure Dumbledore had his reasons. Remember when he didn't make me prefect during our fifth year," he ended softly.   
  
She looked wild at that moment, even more so her hair and cinnamon eyes. "Yes, but Harry," she started irritably, "that was the sensible course of action ... this is just -- just...." She threw up her hands in defeat and inhaled deeply. "This is just not possible."   
  
Ron, never being one for great tact, asked suddenly, "Well, let's have it -- who's the lucky prat to get a room all to herself?"  
  
Hermione's lips pursed together and her eyes narrowed, while her body turned in the direction of the Slytherin Table. "Pansy Parkinson," each word was spat out like poison. With a final glare, Hermione turned back to her friends. "Who would pick her?" she asked incredulously.   
  
"Oh, no," Ron said, ignoring Hermione's question. "A Slytherin?" He lopped his head into his hands.  
  
Harry, however, was unfazed and seemed as if the great puzzle had been solved. "There. See, it makes sense."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked exasperated. Harry once again had that mischievous glint in his eye.  
  
"Well," he began, "I reckon that they had to pick a Slytherin..." He held up a hand when Hermione tried to interrupt him. "... Because with Voldemort rising it makes sense to keep the Gryffindor's free," he finished with a figurative pat on the shoulder and a wide grin.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "For, Merlin's sake, Harry ... do you ever think about anything else?"   
  
"What, like school?" Ron piped in.   
  
"Yes, like school," Hermione chided softly. As always their antics were making her feel better and she supposed that what Harry said was plausible, though she still thought that she could handle bossing people around and fighting the Dark. Fancy that.   
  
She sighed deeply and pushed a loose strand of light brown tangle behind her ear before filling her plate with as much food as it could hold, and staring unseeing at the shivering first years, waiting to be sorted.  
  
This was going to be a long year.... 


	2. Solitude And Solace

Chapter Two:  
  
Solitude And Solace... Maybe  
  
Severus Snape took great pleasure in leering -- quite menacingly, too -- at the first years, from his vantage point at the Head Table. Another batch of imbeciles, he cruelly thought. Most certainly not Hogwarts material. But than again, was he, Death Eater, Hogwarts material? His dark eyebrow raised of its own accord but the self-pitying thought was quickly washed away by the incoming tide of bitterness.   
  
He, Potions Master, would have to be teaching these sniveling dunces and while he couldn't bring himself to act politely, was quite surprised at his control to not hit the students. Sure, he was mean and cold ... but at least he curbed the desire to smack at hands, destroying precious potions and prick the ears of daydreaming boys and girls.   
  
He certainly wasn't that dense during his time at the magical school -- he had been studious and hardworking. Yet he was ridiculed while the dolts thrived. Yes, Snape was afflicted with these memories of past ... one could even say ... acrid because of them. Or perhaps fault wasn't only in the actions of others....  
  
With a final scowl to the young ones and a terse "excuse me" to the other teachers, Severus left the Great Hall and in his wake was the midnight of his billowing robes. As he stalked, as quiet as a shadow, down the changing hallways of the school, he subtlety rubbed his left forearm, before muttering, "Eclipse," at the stone wall, that opened to reveal his chambers.  
  
Sitting down slowly -- tired age was his -- on the black, satiny sheet that covered his sofa, he clutched in his tapered fingers a self-made drink of bourbon. He grasped his leathery soft wand in his other hand, whispering, "Incendio," to the gaping darkness of something passing as a fireplace. Feeble blue flames shot up momentarily, only to be quickly extinguished by the dank atmosphere of Snape's lair. For every night, he had tried to conjure up the warmth, and each time he failed miserably. Glowing embers just didn't belong in the dim-lit and sad space, that pretended to be a home.   
  
Snape sneered at the dying fire and took a sip of the strong drink. Surrounded by darkness that kept the shadows molded together, he went over, in his head, the lesson plans for all the classes he would have to teach and frowned each time his mind stopped at a grief-giving name. More specifically, Potter (that arrogant hero) ... Weasley (that insufferable stutterer) ... and Granger (that annoying know-it-all). Those three names were enough to make him cringe, visibly, and wish he was still kissing the Dark Lord's evil hands.   
  
Quickly expelling that thought, he made his way to his antiquated bedroom, with heavy burgundy curtains, shunning the light and the lush silver, yet bland, sheet adorning his bed. He sharply unbuttoned all the tiny black knobs, winding down the front of his jacket and did quick work of the rest of his clothes, levitating them to the armoire, with a hasty, "Wingardium Leviosa."   
  
Severus eased himself into the glacial smoothness he knew he would find underneath his blanket and would've turned off the lights, had there been any "on." Resting his greasy head on the scratchy pillow, he remained awake, stroking the Dark Mark on his arm and not looking forward to what would surely be another unappreciative year for the most hated (and dangerous) teacher Hogwarts ever had the displeasure of housing. 


End file.
